"And when are you coming to dine at Fulham?" cried one voice.
"I shall certainly get those quadrilles of Offenbach's," said another.
"How delightfully Mr. Lawsley sang that song of Santley's!"
And anon a chorus of "Never enjoyed myself more!" "Most delightful
evening!" "Pray don't come out in the cold." "Thanks; well, yes, yours
are always capital." "No, I won't light up till I'm on the road." "Give
my book a lift in the _D.H._, eh, old fellow?" "Are you _quite_ sure that
shawl is warm enough?" "Take a rug for your feet." "Thanks, no."
"Good-night." "See you on Tuesday." "Don't forget the box for D.L." "All
right, old fellow!" "Lower Road, Roehampton Lane, Putney Bridge.
Good-night."
Among the confusion of voices Philip Sheldon had recognized more than one
voice that was familiar to him. There were Charlotte's gentle tones, and
Valentine's hearty barytone, and another that he knew.
Diana Paget! Yes, it was her voice. Diana Paget, whom he had cause to
hate for her interference with his affairs.
"A beggar," he muttered to himself, "and the daughter of a beggar! She
was a nice young lady to set herself in opposition to the man who gave
her a home."
The vehicles drove away, but there was still a little group in the rustic
porch. Valentine and Charlotte, with Monsieur and Madame Lenoble, who had
come to spend their Christmas with their English friends.
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